


Wind Hands and the Eagle

by aureliu_s



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Riding, Rough Sex, Smut, haha - Freeform, juicy, kind of heavy but not really, malik is in for the juicy details, post-injury sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: Malik notices the little things about Altaïr's life since his demotion, his assignment to a higher ranked Assassin, and his Templar kills. Once he pieces the little things together, he's determined to find the big picture.(SMUT)





	Wind Hands and the Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> So Adilah is an OC strictly for AC1 who I never wrote much about but really loved at the time I created her? Somehow this idea popped into my mind and I decided I could revive her. It's hard to make hers and Altaïr's relationship form without pulling Altaïr way too out of character so here's my shot at it!

Malik knew.

It was near impossible to _not_ know, not when he was so strategically placed. It began as confusion, with no small bit of irritation, but that was worth the struggle for him to earn the juicy details. And now he knew.

Every other night he heard the footsteps walk by. He thanked his Assassin training; had his ears not been made to perk whenever he heard foreign footsteps, he would have never noticed them. But Altaïr had never been too stealthy on his feet, and to most other Assassins of the Order he was like a bull wearing pots and pans in a sandstorm. But Malik knew him, and he knew his footsteps, so it was almost child’s play to discern them whenever they walked by. Every other night he waited until the footsteps had gone. They were always going up the hallway, to where higher ranking Assassins were roomed. Who could he possibly be visiting? Not Al Mualim, not consistently every other night, not when the moon was large and high in the sky. He wasn’t even walking the right way for the Grandmaster. It took Malik a few days, closer to a week, to come up with a name: Adilah. She had been assigned by Al Mualim to oversee  Altaïr’s progress back to the master rank, and last he had heard there was grumbling on both sides about that. She viewed  Altaïr as a stupidly reckless bastard, and he was sure  Altaïr had words for her that he didn’t share. But who else spent the most time with him? Who was gone with him most days of the month, of the year? Who knew what went on when they disappeared for their missions? Malik had a feeling he had finally caught on.

It had been a hot summer night when he decided to follow them. There was an abandoned watchtower on a rocky cliff that was within the sight of the compound. It had been struck multiple times during the Crusader attack, and some of it had come tumbling down but the majority remained standing, if in questionable state. It came as no surprise, then, when he discreetly followed them all the way to the base of the cliff. He watched them climb up, together, dispersing themselves with stealth across the rocks and easily making their way to the top, where he lost sight of them. Having only one arm, he decided it best to not risk his life for the sole purpose of snooping into his former friend’s nightly doings. The path that led up to the tower was still there, if a bit overgrown, but he made quick work of it. He could only assume they would be towards the top, so, moving on his toes, Malik ascended the winding staircase. His assumption proved to be correct when a faint glow accompanied by a quiet female voice greeted him. Stepping into the room he did without thinking, but next time he would not be so careless. The sight before him was one he didn’t particularly care to witness more than once--ideally, never.

Altaïr was the prominent figure, his tan skin and build making him easily identifiable. In the perhaps fifteen minutes it had taken Malik to climb the hill and the tower, they had already gotten to each other. Altaïr, ever the narcissist, remained partially clothed from the waist downward while his companion was near naked. But his hands were working fast to justify that, tearing at the cloth pants and belt that were keeping him from his prize. The knotted shorts came next, a thin layer of fabric that he easily discarded. His hands travelled down, stopping to give a pair of perky if small breasts a squeeze, before sliding onto the woman’s thighs and spreading them open. With absolute lust in his eyes he rid himself of his pants as well, settling his hips between slim thighs and pushing downwards on the smaller frame of the person below him. His eyes were cast downwards to the source of the moans he was eliciting from the woman, occasionally looking farther to watch her heat make his length slick. Malik himself felt nothing but pure amazement that Altaïr even knew how to have sex.

A pause came in the whimpers of the woman and by this point, Malik was near sure it was Adilah. No other Assassins had such lithe and slim frames, no other Assassins were of such short stature, and surely no other Assassins seemed to have the body parts that Altaïr seemed to enjoy so very much. A large, tan hand--two thirds of one finger missing, Malik dutifully noted--disappeared to where their bodies met and Malik, to his oddly fascinated pleasure, watched Altaïr’s hips move back, and then slam forward. He was hardly surprised by the whining moan that came from his companion, loud enough to be heard at least on the floor below. Altaïr set a brutal pace, that much could be affirmed from the regular slapping of skin hitting skin. He was almost surprised Adilah was the one, if this was how Altaïr was; harsh, rough, almost uncaring. She was so slight, it seemed like if Altaïr went much harder or much faster he would shatter her hips. But a pair of hands reached up to the demoted Assassin’s short brown hair, squeezing the back of his neck, before the figure that Altaïr was so vigorously thrusting his cock into sat up, her chest to a pair of scarred lips. There was a sudden change in his pace as strong hips had to compensate for their decrease in mobility, with another body sitting on his thighs, hips nestled into his pelvis. So that was how she got him to slow down; smart, Malik had to admit. Move into positions that threatened his ability to keep slamming, and he would be forced to slow down.

Malik carefully turned around after seeing those scarred lips latch around a nipple, sucking and teething earnestly. The pair had now reached a compromise of speed, thrusting against each other to double the pleasure.

 

That was all he saw for a month.

They vanished to Jerusalem on another elimination project, making this their fourth Templar takedown. Five to go, according to Al Mualim. The trip to Jerusalem was the longest so far, but when the pair were dragged into the main hall early one morning Malik saw why. Altaïr was hardly standing, for once relying on other people for his support. Malik had never seen that happen before. His hood was down, exposing his face to the entire populace of the compound--another first. He looked in agony and his features were pale, but somehow the planes of his face held onto their stony carelessness. Adilah was crumpled beside him, two guards holding her carefully at the shoulders. A look on each of their faces gave Malik the impression that Altaïr, no matter how hurt he was, would not allow them to touch her anywhere else. Malik had never given him off as the protective type; that would make three in one morning.

Neither Altaïr nor Adilah were familiar faces in the infirmary wing, but they were ordered there for a week. Malik reluctantly offered to take charge of their recovery, although he was just as surprised about it as Al Mualim was. But the Grandmaster accepted his offer and every day for seven days, Malik brought them food, checked on their progress with the healers. He wasn’t shocked to learn Altaïr had it worse than she did; he could almost see the fight unfolding when Adilah told him about it. Altaïr charging in, Adilah sticking behind to gauge her enemies and execute a swift and skilled kill, like any smart assassin would. It was odd; he found no trace of affection in her voice for the man only a few feet away, no reminiscing, no regret. If they were holding their secret relationship as Malik speculated, they were masters at hiding it.  

On his ninth day of nurse duty, Malik took a night stroll to see his patients. He never really walked in at night, just poked his head in from the doorway. But this time, the two cots were empty. Part of him wanted to curse Altaïr for probably getting himself into more trouble but a part of him, the bitter part, wasn’t surprised and didn’t truly care. But Al Mualim would have his hide if his best Assassins went missing, or had to stay in the infirmary any longer than they were supposed to. He considered just going to bed; it had been a long day, and there was an influx of novices in the past weeks that required training and education before they could even begin to learn their basic skills. But he went searching anyway.

The first obvious place to check was either of their quarters, but both were empty and dust was beginning to settle from the last time they had been entered a long month ago. He checked the library, the training yard, the kitchens, the gardens, even the stables, but there was no one there who shouldn’t have been there. The tower stuck up straight into the dusky sky, like a hovering reminder of the one place he hadn’t checked. The last thing he wanted to do was climb, but the tower beckoned, and he was obliged to answer.

He took his time with this climb, taking a near half hour to reach the top of the tower where he had found them last time. The sight he could make out from the shadows this time was more of a surprise than the first encounter. Altaïr on his back in their collection of cushions and rugs, his torso propped at an obtuse angle up against a stack of circular pillows. Just as Malik assumed a position in the shadows of the wall and doorway, a string of words fell from Altaïr’s mouth.

“ _Dayq jidanaan,_ ” he breathed, shifting himself carefully, “ _‘uhib dhalik._ ”

The words seemed foreign to his voice and even more so to Malik’s ears; it was impossible to believe that Altaïr had just given someone a _compliment_ , or the closest thing he’d ever get to one. He wasn’t sure if telling someone they were tight and that he liked it counted. But Adilah seemed satisfied enough with his small words, rocking her hips with precise caution against his. They were both injured and in the recovery process, that much was evident from the bandages around Altaïr’s middle, his thigh, and the healings scrapes and bruises Adilah shared. He wasn’t terribly flabbergasted to see that they were both still healing and choosing to have sex. He was more concerned about the lack of noise. He had expected Altaïr’s same rough treatment as last time, his dominance, his control of the situation, but it was not present here. Malik could almost swear he even heard the man breathe out a moan, a mere whisper of his companion’s name.

She rode him slow but pleasurable enough, judging by his closed eyes and previous words. Small hands were spread on his chest, clear of whatever injury he suffered, and just as Malik shut his gaping jaw she lowered her lips down to sweetly kiss the recently demoted Assassin. His large hands took to massaging her hips, taking his usual control of the kiss but nothing else; the scales remained tipped to her. It all made sense. When she controlled the time, the atmosphere, things were slow and gentle, affectionate, loving. When he controlled the environment, which Malik guessed was most of their love making, it was rough and fast, but all pleasure. Maybe the affection came after.

His gaze fastened on nothing in particular and he became lost to his own thoughts. He could interrupt them and suffer the consequences, but he did not feel too keen to learn what those were. He could continue mucking into their relationship, following them in the shadows to see how they evolved together, but he didn’t think that would be particularly safe, especially if they caught him intruding on their privacy. He could turn them in to Al Mualim with the risk of both of them getting expelled from the Order. That, he had to admit, seemed to be the least appealing one. Despite his recent actions that had resulted in the death of Malik’s brother, Altaïr was still a friend, and Adilah was still an accomplice of his. He had no doubt they would hunt him down. If not ruin his life, then end it. The Order was all Altaïr had, and he assumed for Adilah the same was true. Malik would not be the one who stripped it away from them.

In the midst of his thoughts he was broken free by a gravelly moan, his head jerking up. Altaïr, despite his unknown but obvious injury, began to roll his hips up to meet every downwards motion. They had interlocked hands as well, the novice holding his arms at square angles against the floor and lacing his fingers with hers. He could almost see the act of kindness behind it; it wasn’t like Altaïr to support people in any way. Malik bit back a yawn he was unaware he had been fighting, sliding down against the wall, still out of sight. He wouldn’t fall asleep, not yet. He could wait. They would be done soon and he would leave before they were, if only the will to stand up was reaching his legs. He closed his eyes anyway, letting his body fall into a slumber while his mind kept working. Fifteen minutes of this half-repose later, the moans and the breaths and the pants came to a gradual stop, and it seemed as if all life had ceased in the tower. The stones returned to their lifeless dull as the singular torch began to fade.

On wooden legs he stood, taking a cautious step outwards from his hiding place.

They were asleep. Wrapped up together in an overly large blanket, it was odd to say Altaïr was snuggling someone but that was the only word that came to mind, his long arms holding the blanket around their bodies. His gaze came to settle on his face, where burnished gold eyes were staring straight at him.

Malik took a weary step back from Altaïr, unable to look away as long as that gaze held him in its grasp. There were unspoken words there, a command coming from closed lips. Malik opened his mouth to whisper something but before he could even form the first word the golden eyes shut, and Altaïr dipped his head to push his nose into Adilah’s hair without a word.

The bookkeeper gave a short nod. Their secret would stay with him.

 


End file.
